The Hand He Was Dealt
by mille libri
Summary: Doc Holliday had seen many a strange and unusual thing since he had hauled himself out of that well—but none of it had prepared him for the sight of Wynonna Earp's suddenly rounded belly and all that it implied.


_Thanks for reading!_

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In the course of his long and mostly misspent life, John Henry "Doc" Holliday had been many things … but one thing he had never been was slow on the uptake. Finding himself face to face with Wynonna Earp's suddenly swollen belly, he understood all of the ramifications of the situation immediately.

Understanding, however, didn't prevent the way his heart thudded in his chest, the way his pulse raced, the way his breath was suddenly … gone. Wynonna was afraid of his reaction—he could see it on her face, always so much more expressive than she knew. And her reaction to this would be complex, conflicted. He could practically feel her inner agitation, for all her outward calm. But Doc couldn't think that through right now. The revelation, his certainty of what it meant for him, had been a punch to the gut, so sharp and so accurately aimed just where he had never known he was most vulnerable that he could feel tears coming to his eyes.

"I wanted you to hear it from me," she told him softly, although she hadn't actually said anything. She hadn't needed to. Where he was concerned, she never needed to. He could read her face like the most profound literature. But he didn't know how to respond right now. He didn't know what to think, or even for sure who he was for the moment.

Sounds of movement above their heads gave him the excuse he needed. "I do believe folk are wakin' up upstairs," he said, his voice sounding rusty in his own ears.

Wynonna winced. Whatever she had hoped his reaction would be, he had not achieved it. But she also did not appear surprised. She knew him almost as well as he knew her.

Doc got slowly to his feet, grasping his hat as the only real thing he could hold on to in a world he suddenly didn't recognize. He had seen many a strange and unusual thing since he had hauled himself out of that well—but this was one more than he could handle and retain any level of his usual poise.

As he rose, his eyes fell on Wynonna's stomach again, a stomach that had not had this rounded shape yesterday. The child within her had grown while they all slept their enchanted sleep, it seemed, and she had awakened to this reality, whatever she might or might not have known when the spell struck her.

He put that aside to consider later, as his gaze traveled up to meet her eyes. "They'll be thirsty," he said to her, wishing he was fit for more than mundanities. But they weren't alone, and she had just sprung this on him … and she would simply have to be patient with the fact that he couldn't quite pull himself together in the face of this impossible thing.

They looked away from each other, but then Doc's eyes were drawn back to Wynonna's, the moment stretching between them as he tried to hold back the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and Wynonna tried to decide which of the many thoughts he could see crossing her face she wanted to express.

But he wasn't strong enough to be what she needed of him, not in this moment, and he tore himself away before he could say something foolish and make things any worse. She would understand that he didn't know what to say, he told himself, she would … but she would be disappointed, and that he could not help.

Despite the excuse he had made, Doc didn't even glance at the bar as he went by, and he passed by the closed door of Rosita's room without a second glance. She was a nice girl, an entertaining romp … but she was not Wynonna. No woman he had ever known had been Wynonna, or even come close.

He smiled to himself, thinking of how Wyatt would have been shocked and horrified by the hard-drinking, foul-mouthed, pragmatic mess of an offspring she was … and of how utterly alike they were in so many ways. Maybe that was what had first drawn him to her, that she was so very like his best friend. Maybe it had been her innate gallantry, her courage in the face of whatever came against her, or the longings he saw occasionally in her eyes for something other than Purgatory and the ties that held her here. Whatever it had been … he had not been long out of the well before he had fallen for her. He could admit that to himself. He had all but admitted it to her, a time or two, and he was more than aware that Waverly and Dolls knew what he felt. For all that he had a splendid poker face, he could not seem to hide his feelings from those who cared for Wynonna.

And she cared for him, too, he knew she did. But she didn't know her own heart, which was pulled in different ways, part of her longing to leave, part of her drawn to Dolls and the vulnerability he hid beneath his tough outer shell, part of her sensing the kindred between herself and Doc. It was anyone's guess which way she would eventually turn, and Doc had done his best to avoid pushing her, knowing that in the end she deserved more than what little he could offer her.

Of course, all that had been yesterday. Doc threw his hat on the bed, leaning back against the closed door of his room and seeing again in his mind's eye the rounded belly, the fear in her eyes. Today, she was pregnant. And, unless the child was some sort of demon, she was pregnant with his child. His child. Doc Holliday's child. How Wyatt would have laughed at that irony, Doc thought, lighting a cheroot and smiling at the thought. He smiled even further at the image of Wyatt grabbing him by the lapels and demanding that he do right by the child he had created.

But how could he do right by something he had long ago learned to believe was impossible? Love was not for such as he—not before his curse by the Stone Witch, and most certainly not after. Children? Unthinkable.

Yet now he couldn't stop thinking about it. The softness of a baby's skin, the soft coos and harsh wails. His child. Wynonna's child. His child with Wynonna.

For a moment he felt a stab of longing so deep it almost hurt, wanting that impossibly perfect life, the love of that exceptional woman and their child growing up wild and ornery like her mother. Certainly not smooth and slippery like his father, no. Doc devoutly hoped it would be a girl, to inherit all of Wynonna's fierceness and beauty.

And the curse. He cursed a little himself, thinking of it. The Earp curse. Was that why this had happened, the curse finding a way to propagate itself unto the next generation? And now Wynonna would have no choice but to allow it to do so. Had she been able to decide for herself, Doc had no doubt that she would have chosen to quietly end the pregnancy, as so many of the soiled doves of his acquaintance had. She would rail against yet another choice taken from her, he knew she would—but he knew as well that she would come around, she would take it in stride, and eventually she would love whole-heartedly, with all that was in her.

All the more reason that however he chose to face this development, he could not ask her to make choices with him in mind. He could not assume that the mingled blood that flowed through the veins of their child meant anything more than that. He could not pressure her. The world had already put enough on her, he would not add to that burden.

What did that mean? He pushed himself off the door, sinking down on the edge of his bed and putting his face in his hands. Because he wanted to go to her, to hold her and tell her everything would be all right, that he would take care of her, but he knew damned well everything was not going to be all right, not for a good long time yet, and she didn't want to be taken care of. So what did that leave him?

Doc straightened on the bed, pushing his hair back from his face and shaking himself. What that left him was what had already been, he realized. He would be her friend, until she was sure what else—if anything—she wanted him to be. And he would stand behind her as she faced the next … four months? Five? It was hard to tell how far along she suddenly must be. Whatever she asked of him, whatever she needed. He would put all his chips on the table for her and for their child, and he would play whatever hand he was dealt.

Yes. He stood up, putting his hat back on and reaching for his coat. He needed to see her now, to see if she needed to see him, if she wanted to talk about it now that he, and hopefully she, had had some time to think. But, in case she didn't …

Doc went down to the bar, making a pretense of normalcy as he made his way through the suddenly raucously drunk patrons, envying them their freedom to drown their sorrows.

Rosita raised her eyebrows as he approached.

"Could I trouble you for a piece of paper and a writing utensil?"

"Sure." Still looking at him as though something seemed odd, she laid both objects in front of him. She hovered for a moment, then drifted off when it became clear to her that Doc didn't want to talk.

Pulling the paper toward him, he poised the pen above it. What could he say that would promise to be there but wouldn't make Wynonna feel any more trapped, or spooked, than she already did? He thought of the poker chips, and smiled, letting the words flow across the page. "I am all in." Yes, he most certainly was.


End file.
